


raw honey

by gonegirlgang



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27572992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonegirlgang/pseuds/gonegirlgang
Summary: A linear progression of kisses through major milestones (or, four times Santana gets introduced to the many flavors of Quinn Fabray).
Relationships: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Comments: 19
Kudos: 99





	1. summer

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a cute lil warm-up fic to get the creativity flowing again because i somehow lost all of it over the last month? big yikes but uh... that doesn't matter anymore. cuz i'm back baby.
> 
> also, ily august, forever and ever amen.

The first time they kiss, the heat is almost unbearable and Quinn tastes like strawberry soft serve.

All of Santana’s senses are heightened amidst the warmth. The cicadas buzz louder, the smell of chlorine is heavier, and she swears she can see the pattern on each and every leaf of her mom’s hazelnut tree. The summer turns her into some kind of superhero or something, which would be kinda cool if comic books weren’t grade-A lame. And yeah, she can totally attest, because Brittany's evil sister once caught her sneaking out of the kitchen window at two in the morning and coerced Santana into taking her to Ohio's subpar version of Comic Con in exchange for her silence. So, even though she normally wouldn't be caught dead anywhere within five miles of someone dressed as a Justice League character, she went.

And she didn't have a good time. At all. (If there's a photo of her and some rando cosplaying as Lara Croft pinned to her cork board, then whatever.)

Anyway.

Santana's lounging on a large blow-up flamingo, drifting lazily as the barely there wind sweeps the raft from one end of the pool to the other. Honestly? This is pre-freakin'-cisely what the season’s all about: floating, tanning, and sipping on exceptionally delicious mojitos.

But it appears as though Quinn hasn’t received the relaxation memo, because she circles the laptop on the patio table, refreshing and refreshing every two minutes, waiting for her SAT scores to come in.

“Dude, I’m gonna need you to zen out. Gettin' dizzy just looking at you. You’re like a coked-out worker bee,” Santana drawls, attempting to turn from her back to her stomach without capsizing. That would be a waste of perfectly good rum. “Look, everybody bombs the first run-through.”

“Says who?”

“Your mom.”

(Santana doesn’t need to look over to feel the daggers Quinn’s shooting at her. Bitch-vision, now _that's_ a power.)

“Mature, Lopez, real mature. This is important, so excuse me for caring. You know I’m trying to get—”

“—early acceptance into Yale,” Santana finishes for her. “I know. The whole world knows. At least get out from under that umbrella, the shade’s not doing your pasty ass any wonders. Fuck the sun, alls I gotta do is put some mirrors around your body and have your blinding whiteness do all the work for me.”

Quinn stays put, all sorts of offended and pouty, and taps her foot against the concrete. “Not everyone’s life motto can be ‘keep it bronzy, baby’. I’m not trying to be a lobster the first week of junior year,” she huffs, and presses refresh again.

“I swear to God if I hear you click the trackpad one more time I will throw that shit into the hot tub.”

“It’s your own laptop, dumbass.”

“So what? Papi’s a doctor. I’ll tell him you did it anyway. Something like you were so angry because you got a 1200 and straight-up Hulked out,” Santana says, flipping her sunglasses onto her head to look Quinn directly in the eyes while she noisily slurps up the last of her mojito.

The bitterness of the muddled mint mixes with the tartness of the lime and the sweetness of the sugar, and for a moment, Santana believes this particular drink is a suitable analogy to her and Quinn’s current relationship.

“Don’t jinx it! Ugh, I hate you so much.”

“Liar liar, pants on fire. You love me. So untwist those Hanes for Hers before I untwist them for you.”

“And I’ll tell him you swiped the Bacardi Silver from his liquor cabinet if you bring up my,” she hisses, “ _unmentionables_ ever again.”

“What the? Unmentionables, Quinn? You’re like an old man stuck in a sixteen-year-old’s body. And not in the hot way.”

Quinn narrows her eyes. “There’s a _hot_ way?”

“Duh, bitch. And just know I'm not giving you mouth-to-mouth when you pass out from anxiety _and_ the heat,” Santana says, lacing her tone with bored indifference, because yeah, she cares about Quinn, but not enough to really let it show. 

See? Bitter, tart, sweet. In that order.

With an eye roll so extreme that even Santana's impressed, Quinn ducks out from under the umbrella and perches on the edge of the pool, dipping only up to the ankle in the cool water. Her arms are crossed and her lip is curled, trying to maintain the pretense that Santana did _not_ win and that the weather really isn’t slowly killing them all.

It’s late August. The swelter should have died down by now, but there’s been a massive heat wave blaring through Ohio over the last week. And for whatever reason, Quinn’s wearing another one of those Jesus cardigans and jeans while Santana stretches out in a sorry excuse for a bikini. It’s more like a few pieces of string and four convenient triangles. Briefly, she wonders which bathing suit Quinn has on under those suffocating fabrics. Maybe today's the day she'll finally see Quinn in something other than a modest one-piece. Unconsciously, Santana licks her lips.

Yikes. Where did that even come from?

She hasn’t ever thought about Quinn like _that_ before, but hey, she’s a teenager with rampant hormones who hasn't had sex in way too long—you can’t blame her.

It’s kind of super freakin’ annoying, really, how Quinn spawned a whole ass infant and her body snapped back to its pre-pregnancy state in a matter of months. Like, okay, she did show up at the Lopez's front door every morning since school let out and demanded Santana run with her. Two birds with one stone, Santana thought, cheer conditioning and the fact that Quinn almost always had breakfast ready by the time Santana toweled off from a shower.

Born for domesticity, this girl is. A tried-and-true Stepford wife. Judy would be proud. And if Russell took the time to get his self-righteous head out of his ass and be a _real_ father, he’d be proud too.

But no. Quinn’s parents are ten degrees of majorly effed up and somehow (where the hell did Mercedes disappear off to this summer?), Santana’s left to pick up the pieces of the former head cheerleader. Not that either of them have vocally acknowledged this new development in their friendship, but Santana knows Quinn’s grateful nonetheless.

Pity has Santana tumbling gracelessly off the flamingo, wading over, and cuffing the bottoms of Quinn’s jeans, rolling them up twice as they’ve now begun to saturate. Quinn reaches down to slide the sunglasses back onto the bridge of Santana’s nose and all of a sudden the world’s twice as dark as it was a second ago.

They’ve gotten much closer over the summer. One might even consider them proper friends again. Kind of like the way she is with Brittany. Sans sex, but—no one knows that.  
  
Santana misses her best friend a shit ton. There are only so many times one can acquaint themselves with their left hand before it gets pathetic and she’s pretty sure she hit that number twenty solo sessions ago.

Brittany’s been on vacation since June in Montana or something identically dumb and farmy. FaceTime has been a godsend and Santana shoots a thank you up to Steve Jobs in heaven for the invention. Still, Brittany’s out there riding horses and baling hay and herding cattle for the majority of the day (Santana gets lowkey riled up if she thinks about it—it’s the flannel) so it’s not like the constant contact they got when school was still in session.

In spite of all that, she sometimes forgets just how much she misses Brittany when Quinn comes to visit. Which, again, has been every damn day.

She cringes inwardly and takes it back. That sounded shitty. Santana’s not swapping blonde for blonde and hoping for the best. If anything, Quinn got there first. People don’t really know this, but before Brittany, before high school, it was Santana and Lucy who were attached at the hip. But hips got traded for pinkies and Lucy got traded for Quinn and there were boys and cheerleading positions to squabble over. And yeah, she kind of messed up her and Quinn’s relationship even further by abandoning her during the whole lizard baby gestation period. To be fair, her own plate was piled high with that issue of her budding homosexuality and she didn’t quite have the energy to confront jaded teens with swelling bellies.

Whatever. Point is, she feels bad, okay? Like, real bad. Worse than that time she got caught shoplifting a pair of gold hoops in the sixth grade and her mom whooped her ass so hard she couldn’t sit right for days. Worse than the time she tit-punched Quinn because she called her “the biggest slut since Candy Parker” for kissing some boy they both had a crush on. Candy gave blowies for five bucks a pop in the locker room so Santana hardly believed a sloppy smooch was worth the insult.

(Obviously, it was their first physical altercation of many but the bruise that bloomed on pale skin was nothing compared to the guilt she felt later that night as she handed Quinn a bag of frozen mixed veggies as an apology.)

Regardless, she guesses Quinn needs a friend more than she needs pride, because here she is now, in Santana’s backyard, having a goddamn conniption.

“Hey, I’m gonna lay some truth right quick so _escuchame_ ,” Santana begins, running her index finger along Quinn’s left ankle, “‘cause you’re at a solid nine and I need you to be no higher than a six. Really, this is more for me than it is for you. I’m graying prematurely.”

“That’s dramatic, but proceed.”

“You’re the smartest person I know, Luce.” The old nickname slips out like nothing and neither of them mention it. It’s easier like this, maybe, to be truthful when Quinn is not Quinn. When the only thing they worried about was who got to go first in tetherball (Santana) or who could have the last fruit punch Capri Sun (Lucy). “You work harder than a racehorse, you’re tough as nails, and you’re gonna get out of Lima one way or another. Don’t let a standardized test tell you otherwise.”

Quinn’s eyes go big and watery and Santana rubs the pads of her thumbs over Quinn’s knees. The same way she did when they were eight and some jerk-faced nobody made fun of Lucy’s crooked teeth or big nose. Why the knees, who the hell knows, but it’s always been incredibly therapeutic for Quinn and she instantly mellows. Her feet stop kicking white bubbles and her fingers stop drumming against the tile.

“Plus, Yale reviews potential students holistically.”

“How do _you_ know that?” Quinn asks in a tone Santana’s not too fond of.

“Watch it, Q. I might’ve snooped around the admissions site while you were napping yesterday.”

Quinn looks down at her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I—sorry. It’s just… nerves, you know?”

“I know. But you have no reason to be nervous. You were Head Cheerio, and at this rate, with the early morning conditioning, Sylvester’s gotta put you back on the squad. Probably as a base, but. Whatever. And you literally founded a club. Sure, it’s for abstinence and it’s kind of a joke—” Quinn glares, but Santana persists. “I’m trying to compliment you. You know it’s rare as hell so don’t give me that look and let me be nice for once.

“Anyway, you have what, a 4.0? Pretty sure you’ve got valedictorian in the bag. We’re only juniors which means you’ve got more than enough time to bulk up your resume, so please, for the love of all that is holy, quit worrying about your damn SAT scores and swim with me.”

After approximately a billion years of silence, Quinn chews her lip and nods. Santana nods too and pushes away from the wall. The force of the water draws her back slowly and she watches as Quinn shimmies out of her clothes and folds them carefully on a nearby lawn chair. She’s left in an adorable cornflower blue one-piece that Santana gets to leer at for all of two seconds before she swan dives in.

The water is barely disturbed by her leap, just a tiny splash accompanied by an even tinier _plop plink_ , and Quinn’s head emerges about ten yards away from where she entered. It’s like one of those perfume commercials with those women who materialize from pools in slow motion, all mermaid-esque and water-slick hair, even though Santana has no idea what perfume and pools have in common.

“Who knew you were so good at pep talks, Lopez?” Quinn calls from the other end. “You could be one of those crisis counselors. Convince people to come down from ledges. Be a national hero.”  
  
“Hmm, how about no. Have you seen me try to deal with my own shit? You’re lucky I really do love you, sometimes. When you’re not an overemotional hag,” Santana says, skin prickling with the overabundance of sentiment. Ugh, she feels like Rachel. Gross.

Quinn swims forward leisurely, her precise movements keeping the water relatively placid until she comes to a stop right in front of Santana. Her hair is two shades darker now with water dripping through the fine strands. Honey becomes amber and something about it sucks all the air out of Santana’s lungs.

Maybe it’s because the blonde is less Brittany-like now. Santana likes the way Brittany’s hair shines as bright as the afternoon sun, lightening in the summer until it turns to a near-platinum. It’s sort of stupid, she thinks, that this visual discrepancy between her two best friends shows the difference in their dispositions.

The amber is appropriate. The platinum is appropriate. What isn’t, really, is the dangerously unwelcome fluttery feeling sprouting in her chest.

Gay panic itself is nothing new or noteworthy. Closeted, judgmental lesbian, remember? It’s the fact that said panic is now being attributed to God’s own Quinn Fabray.

Santana is not crushing on Quinn. Not here, not now, not ever. The two of them together? Like, _together_ together? A whole ass tragedy just waiting to happen. Not the romantic Shakespearean kind either. More like Hiroshima or something. Besides, what would that even look like?

Insane screaming matches every other day? Frequent trips to that toneless dumbass Figgins’ office because Santana has zero control over her temper and Quinn is the second most annoying person she knows? Waking up to Quinn singing in the shower in that admittedly sexy singing voice? Dancing in their pajamas in the mornings while Quinn makes chocolate chip pancakes?

So the last couple seem pretty great. And sure, Quinn has long fingers and short nails and briefly—so, so briefly—does Santana think about how they’d feel _inside_ of her. Would they reach the same parts Brittany’s do? Would they be better?

Record scratch, freeze frame.

What the actual fuck is going on inside Santana’s water-logged skull? She tips her head to the left as discreetly as she can, willing the drops to fall from her head out her ear. She hopes the nonsensical bits of her brain fall out too, because this is all sorts of not okay.

This is not the time to think about your (other) best friend’s fingers all up in places they will never be.  
  
God, this has been the weirdest summer break of her life. The amount of introspection is uncanny. This is not what she expected to have happened back in June; back when Brittany packed her bags and headed to the airport, back when Quinn showed up at her doorstep in Cheerios sweats, barely free of the baby and equally as ready to be free of the baby weight.

“I love you too, San,” Quinn says softly and simply as she bobs up and down in the water. Breathed out like a secret, it catches Santana off guard.

She stares at Quinn blankly, tilting her head to the side. She got so caught up in her inner monologue she forgot what she said scant seconds prior. By the looks of Quinn—eyes owlish from overthinking—she was probably stuck in her own version of it as well.

But then Santana remembers; how she said “you’re lucky I really do love you” so casually, even tacking on a “sometimes” at the end to further her nonchalance. Quinn’s words seem the complete opposite.

This really isn’t the place to dwell on the weight words may or may not hold, because it’s becoming a lot harder to focus on staying above the surface with the way Quinn’s gaze bores directly into hers. “I know,” is all she says, ultimately. And Santana does know Quinn loves her, in that Quinn Fabray-only kind of way. Like a best friend, like a worst enemy. Then, “Have you thought about what to write for your entrance essay yet?” because Santana needs to escape from the corner she unknowingly backed herself into.

“Not really. Maybe something about cheer. I’m sure Yale would love to hear all about how nothing they can throw at me will be worse than Coach Sue’s actual psychosis. You said it yourself—tough as nails.”

For a moment, all is muted. No cicadas, no chlorine, no leaves. It’s just two girls, treading water, with the sun shining down on them.

Santana takes a deep breath and breaks eye contact for the first time in what feels like hours. The corner is a nice place to settle down in, she decides.

(Better than a closet.)  
  
“I was thinking more along the lines of something like… Beth.” Santana watches as the wind blows a mini wave by. “It’d be kinda fucked not to accept someone who selflessly gave their baby up for adoption, you know what I mean?”

“I just—I don’t—”

“Slow your roll, Q, I didn’t mean to freak you out again. Deep breaths.”

“You didn’t. I’m not freaking out. I—fuck.” Santana flinches. Quinn doesn’t curse often so when she does it throws her off a bit. “I don’t want them to admit me like I’m some charity case. I’m more than a girl who got pregnant at sixteen.” Her voice is low, controlled, careful, but her eyes reflect a sadness that’s been ever-present since Beth’s conception.

“I get it. But for reals, didn’t you hear me before? When I listed, like, a hundred of your accolades? You’re not just that girl to me, and you won’t be that to them either. Beth is a part of you, she’ll always be. And feel free to stop me whenever, God knows I’m out of line, but I think you can see her as a test of character rather than something holding you back. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, Q, you got through that by yourself. And no one—not Puck, not Shelby— _no one_ can take that away from you.”

Quinn’s eyes grow bigger and more watery and for a moment Santana thinks she’s about to burst into tears. She’s no stranger to Quinn crying. She literally did it all the time while pregnant. In between bouts of hormone-induced rage and eating things like sour gummy worms and cream cheese or soft pretzels dipped in pickle juice. Truly vomit-worthy options but Santana endured it because when Quinn was chewing her nasty snacks, she wasn’t snapping at everyone in her immediate vicinity.

Which, more often than not, included Brittany. Brittany, who was always a much better friend to Quinn than Santana was, who would press her palms against Quinn’s expanding stomach and spin stories of butterflies and ladybugs in the choir room.

Not even Santana herself knows why she avoided Quinn throughout the whole thing. She’s just… not good with kids. The most Santana did for her was head to the teacher’s lounge to steal whatever gross concoction she could find in the faculty fridge so Quinn didn’t bite Brittany’s head off. And even that was more selfish than anything.

Instead of crying, Quinn exhales all of her air and sinks to the bottom of the pool. The image of her underwater is distorted and blurry and Santana feels that it’s oddly apt. It’s a good avoidance technique, she muses, if not for the oxygen thing. Santana counts to forty-two before she pops back up.

“I’ll write about Beth, then,” Quinn says. Santana presses her lips against wet amber hair.

“Proud of you, Lucy Q. I’ll even peer review your essay if you need me to.”  
  
Quinn hums. Santana understands it’s both an acknowledgment and a thank you.  
  
“Now, since you so decided to dredge up the simultaneously worst and best thing to ever happen to me,” she says and Santana winces, “I think it’s only fair you get me some ice cream.”

“We don’t have any.”

“It’s almost three. Truck’s coming ‘round any second now.”

Sure enough, twenty minutes of idle floating later, that telltale jingle rings through the neighborhood and both girls scramble out of the pool and sprint out onto the street. Quinn orders strawberry soft serve and Santana orders a Watermelon Bomb Pop and it’s a race against both the sun and time to devour the desserts fast enough. A chime comes from Quinn’s phone and she checks her notifications while Santana methodically tries to keep her ice cream from dripping onto the concrete.

“Santana,” Quinn states, devoid of any and all emotion.

“Hmm?” she mumbles around a mouthful of watermelon-lime goodness.

“It’s an email from the College Board. My scores are in.”

Santana almost chokes on one of the candy seeds. “Shit, Q, what are you waiting for? Open it!”

“I—I can’t.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Fabray? You’re gonna pussy out now?”

“I can’t read it. You have to do it for me.”

“No way am I gonna be the bearer of bad news. I gots me a popsicle to eat, thank you very much.”

“San, _por favor_ ,” she whines.

(Weird. Never has Spanish been so hot before. Brittany's pretty much fluent now, from all the time she's spent around Santana's family, and never has it had such an effect on her. Ugh, she needs to get laid ASAP, before the world implodes and she starts finding someone like Aretha or Girl Chang or—Heaven freaking forbid—the motormouth dwarf attractive.)

“Fine, you bitch,” Santana concedes, snatching the phone out of Quinn’s shaky hand, “but don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Why are you so convinced I’m going to fail? This isn't exactly helpful.”

“I’m just doomsday prepping you for the worst. Also, this is exactly why you took it so early, so you could retake it at least three more times before early admission applications are due.”  
  
“That’s not what doomsday prepping is,” Quinn mutters under her breath.

“You logged in and everything, yeah?” Quinn nods and begins to pace, licking at the ice cream every four or so steps like some automatic wind-up toy. Santana’s thumb hovers over the button. “Fuck, here goes nothing,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut.

“What are you doing? Why are you closing your eyes? Tell me what I got!”

She cracks a single eyelid open. Holy shit. Like, Quinn’s a bona fide genius, and okay, so Santana wanted to keep her expectations low. That’s just what a good friend does, she thinks. Nowhere to go but up or whatever if Quinn really _did_ crash and burn. She blinks a few times, ensuring her vision isn’t playing tricks on her. The numbers remain the same.

“1570,” she breathes out.

Quinn freezes mid-pace. “What?”

“I said you got a—”

“1570!? I got a 1570!?”

“Sure did, Einstein,” Santana says with a lopsided grin. “Take a look.”

Quinn reaches for the phone, hand shaky again, but this time it’s due to enthusiasm as opposed to nervousness. “I can’t believe it. Oh my god, Santana!” she squeaks, all while doing this absolutely ridiculous little victory dance that involves way too much arm-jerking and head-whipping and not nearly enough general coordination.

Somewhere in the back of her mind—like way back—Santana thinks it’s cute.

“Believe it, dude. Come here and let me give you your due congratulations,” she offers, arms opening as wide as Quinn’s smile. Santana doesn’t hug anyone except Brittany and she’s sure Quinn knows this, but frankly she’s a little touch-starved and a lot excited. It’s not every day your brainiac of a best friend gets one step closer to flying the coop.

(This realization instills both fright and inspiration within her. Maybe she’ll get out of here too. Somehow.

She hasn’t given much thought to anything post-high school, but she wants to now—wants to be as far from a Lima Loser as possible, wants to be more like Quinn with her intricate life plans, wants to be _something_.

Santana doesn’t have any marketable skills, really. Sure, she’s perfected the art of the double layout, but what good can that do in terms of like… reality? She sings well enough but lacks formal training like Rachel or a long-standing church choir background like Mercedes.  
  
Ew, thinking about the future sucks. How does Quinn do it?)

Quinn lets out the highest pitched squeal Santana’s ever heard come from her mouth and almost knocks her over from the velocity in which Quinn barrels forward into her arms. They jump and they scream and they laugh in between licks of their desserts. Santana hasn’t seen this side of Quinn in so long and her heart aches just a little bit.

There’s an animation in her eyes Santana forgot existed and her heart drops to her stomach when she realizes the last time she saw them this bright was when Quinn was Lucy. It’s funny to think about, how someone so pretty was happier before all the changes. Not that Santana would dare admit it; Quinn’s still very much self-conscious regarding her physical appearance. Especially after Beth and everything.

Maybe it’s wistfulness, or the way a kid remembers things differently, but she misses when Quinn would look like this all the time. Santana thinks she’d sell her soul to the devil if it meant Quinn kept this happiness for the rest of her life.

She barely registers the way Quinn’s expression shifts from elation to something Santana’s _never_ seen directed at her before cool lips are on hers.

Nothing more than a peck, it’s pure and chaste and everything Santana would expect with a kiss from the queen of the Chastity Ball herself. Not that she ever, ever expected to be kissed by Quinn. Not in a million years.

She doesn’t even have time to close her eyes before Quinn drifts away, and in her head, she replays and replays the last two seconds of her life on an infinite loop. Somehow, Santana knows that these two seconds will forever be inscribed into the recesses of her memory. Even when she’s old and senile, she’ll remember the day Quinn Fabray kissed her.

Her popsicle is all but forgotten as she stares at the concrete, leaving her fingers tinted red and sticky-sweet. Her heart hammers wildly in her chest, because what the hell are they supposed to do now?

Quinn, on the other hand, continues to chomp at her ice cream without a care in the world, which is freaking insane because it’s like a switch has been flipped immediately. Gone is anxious basket-case Quinn, now replaced by some weird mega-chilled Quinn, and Santana doesn’t want to think about whether it was the stellar SAT result or the kiss that’s zenning her out so hard. Quinn’s life is methodically outlined, complete with a ten-year master plan that includes academia and a whole ass career, and Santana’s ninety percent sure a random kiss with her best friend was not in the cards at all... so Quinn kissed her because?

Seconds pass as she decides she’s absolutely not going to break the spell. So she sits and she stares and the sun feels about a billion times closer to Earth. There’s a tingle in her lips she hasn’t felt in a minute (since Brittany boarded a plane) and the backs of her fingers unconsciously run over them. They’re syrupy when she licks her lips and they taste like strawberry soft serve. Like Quinn.

“Thank you, Santana.”

“For what?” she manages to rasp out.  
  
“I couldn’t have done it without you.” Quinn’s voice is unusually soft, so quiet Santana can barely hear it over the pool filter.

Couldn’t have done, what, exactly? Couldn’t have gotten her to come down from that high-strung dithering? Couldn’t have gotten a good SAT score? Couldn’t have cracked open the can of worms that is one baby Beth Corcoran?

Couldn’t have _kissed_ her?

The specifics don’t matter eventually. Because Quinn’s cheeks are just as pink as her ice cream and Santana doesn’t need to wander over to the pool and check her reflection to know she looks the same. Quinn tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and takes a bite of her soft serve and Santana just now feels the way hers is dripping down to her elbow.

With a casual flick of her wrist, red juice flying from her fingertips, Santana decides her response will cover all the bases, just in case.

“Anytime, Q. Any fucking time.”

Quinn smiles the tiniest, most precious, most poignant little smile, and Santana’s halfway to Hell with a pen, ready to sign over the deed to her soul.


	2. autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> better late than never?

New York City is a picturesque little dream, a time where leaves crunch underfoot and the streets are painted in bright golds and reds and oranges. Quinn tastes like cinnamon and apple.

They’re baking a pie (correction: Quinn is baking a pie and Santana is popping the discarded apple peels into her mouth like they’re crack) in their new apartment. It’s small, a fraction of the space of the Bushwick loft, but twice as expensive because it’s Tribeca. The bedroom and living room are rather generous in size, but the kitchen is so narrow that no more than three people can fit in it at a time, and even then they’d have to be lined together in a row like sardines. And don’t even get Santana started on the dimensions of the bathroom. There’s barely enough counter space for her own hair products, let alone Quinn’s.

Understandably, Santana had her reservations. Although she finally made junior associate attorney at the firm and Quinn’s been saving half her paychecks ever since sophomore year of college—Santana will never be able to figure out how she’s so damn good at finances—their new place is still miles above their max limit.

But when Quinn took Santana’s hands in hers and said, “Can’t put a price on happiness, Santana,” she gave in. How could she not? When Quinn’s hazel eyes are sparkling, and her thumbs are brushing over her knuckles, and she’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth—Santana will always, always give in. Plus, having a clawfoot tub has always been one of their mutual life goals, she insisted to absolutely nobody but herself as she scribbled her signature on the dotted line.

Quinn drew a little heart over the ‘I’ in her name as she signed her name. Santana smiled. She’ll have to work overtime every single day for the next two months to make up the down payment, but whatever. Quinn’s right. She’s always right. You really can’t put a price on happiness.

No one thought they’d make it. Hell, neither of them thought they’d make it either. What with their equally short tempers and penchant for physical blows in times of distress, their relationship was less than likely to succeed. But here they are now, two years later: Santana unpacking the last of the boxes and Quinn pulsing flour, sugar, and salt in a food processor for the dough. So _suck on that, everyone._

That theory of Quinn being born for domesticity has consistently been proven right. Not to say her girlfriend isn’t destined for other things, of course (she’s a brilliant photographer and their new home is filled with the most beautiful landscapes Santana’s ever seen), but Quinn is through and through a homemaker, and Santana’s so, so, so in love with her for it.

Probably because most of their arguments stem from Santana’s lack of basic life skills—like that time she left a candle burning and almost incinerated the loft, or the time she mixed a red sweater in with a load of whites, or the time she undercooked chicken and gave all their friends food poisoning.

Honestly? Shit happens.

But over the course of their relationship, Santana’s acquired such practical knowledge—and Quinn’s acquired unbridled amounts of patience—and pretty much everyone’s real grateful for it.

Still, no one lets her anywhere near the oven and that’s fine. Because Quinn’s kneading the dough now, bobbing her head and swaying her hips to Santana’s 90s R&B playlist, and fuck if Santana knees don’t go weak at the sight. The wine glass she’s holding slips out of her grip and she silently thanks her existing cheer reflexes for the way she catches it a foot from the hardwood. Quinn would launch into full-blown hysterics if Santana shattered yet another of her precious ‘dipped copper-plated stemless wine glasses’. She’s already had an earful once because “World Market doesn’t carry these anymore, Santana! You need to be more careful!” and like, ugh. She really must be wholly infatuated with this woman because who cares _that_ much about things you drink out of?

Santana tucks the glass between a stack of plates and a large rose quartz (a very LA housewarming gift courtesy of Brittany and Mercedes) on the reclaimed wood kitchen shelf. God, she thinks, Quinn’s so fucking bougie sometimes. Literally is there that much difference between cabinetry and open shelving?

She steps back to survey the rest of the apartment. Besides the pile of broken-down cardboard boxes in the far corner, it’s shaping up well.

It’s a blend of both of them—a little bit cozy hipster, a little bit modern contemporary—that conglomerate into the perfect mid-century aesthetic. There are the obvious Quinn aspects: the vases filled with peonies littering every available surface, the wall of vinyls and the vintage turntable, the Persian rug they picked up from the Brooklyn Flea Market.

Then there are Santana’s picks: the glass dining table, the seven-foot tall mirror by the front door, the throw pillows that have bare tits on them. Quinn threatened to break up with her when she suggested they get them but the promise of at least three orgasms had Quinn slapping a twenty into the vendor’s hands before Santana could finish her sentence.

But what Santana likes most of all are the pieces they chose _together_ and she almost yaks because of how utterly gay she’s being. The crushed velvet sofa in this beautiful deep jade, the oak spindle bed, the salvaged rustic office desk. Not that there’s an office, there are barely rooms. The apartment is more a glorified studio than anything—the living room and kitchen are practically the same space, the bathroom is the size of a walk-in closet, and their bed takes up half the bedroom.

That being said, Santana capital-L loves it. And she really loves Quinn, who, at this moment, is tossing the apples with sugar and spices and lemon juice.

“Lemme get a slice,” Santana says, dusting her hands off on her jeans in hopes of de-griming them from all the unpacking and reaching for a piece. Quinn slaps her outstretched arm away.

“Wash your hands first, properly.”

Santana walks over to the sink and turns on the faucet. “Where’s the soap?”

“I don’t know, you’re the one that packed the kitchen stuff.”

“Well you’re the one that _labeled_ the kitchen stuff.”

“Santana, we have a bathroom. Use the soap from there.” Quinn sticks her tongue out in concentration as she slides a pizza cutter across a rolled-out flat sheet of dough until they’re divided into equal strips.

“The bathroom is too far,” Santana whines, “and I want a slice _now_. I half-washed them, that’s gotta count for something, right?”

“Ah, yes, because half-doing anything always counts. How would you like it if a doctor only rinsed before performing surgery? Or if a chef only rinsed before—”

“Okay, okay, I get it, Q. Bathroom’s still too far, though.” It’s not, she could probably go from one end of the apartment in ten seconds flat, but she’s concocting a plan.

“What do you suppose I do about your predicament?”

Santana quirks a brow. “Feed me like the Greek goddess I am.”

“Mighty confident today, aren’t we?” Quinn deadpans, but there’s a smile teasing at the corner of her lips.

“Totally. I’ll even go down to the bodega and see if they’ve got any of those big ass leaves so you can fan me while you’re at it.”

“That’s borderline offensive, Santana.”

“But you like me, anyway,” she singsongs. “You like so much I bet you’re entertaining the idea of it too!”

“Am not,” Quinn rebuts, but the smile is growing and Santana is giddy and enamored and very excited at the prospect of finally getting what she wants (and frankly, what she deserves, after laboring away for hours unboxing and refraining from breaking anything).

Santana sidles up right behind Quinn, wraps her arms around her waist and plants a gentle kiss to the back of her neck. She watches over Quinn’s shoulder as she transfers another sheet of dough onto a glass pie dish. Her movements are sure, practiced; expertly folding and crimping. Santana didn’t know all this Martha Stewart-ing would be such a turn on, or she would have requested Quinn bake a her pie years ago.

“Come on, feed me, lover.”

“All right,” Quinn says, “but only one, because I made just enough for the filling.”

She can live with that. Quinn’s incredibly precise in everything she does so if she says she really did make just enough, Santana knows anything more would throw off the whole balance, and Quinn would complain about the filling-to-crust ratio or something.

“Pinky promise.”

Quinn reaches for the bowl and randomly selects a slice.

“No,” Santana shakes her head and points to a much bigger sliver, “that one.”

“Oh my god. Beggars can’t be choosers,” Quinn huffs, but drops the original piece and picks up the right one. “Here, open. And don’t try to be provocative and lick my fingers because I am cooking and that is unsanitary.”

Santana frowns. That was exactly what she was planning on doing. “Well, if you’re gonna be all Berry-level germaphobe about this, then I want you to toss it up into the air and I’ll catch it with my mouth.”

“A child. I am dating a child. And you know you love her.”

“I resent that.”

(So what if Santana _tolerates_ Rachel now. You don’t live with the most annoying Jew-mpa Loompa in the universe for three years and not commit hobbitcide if you don’t at least like her, a little bit. New York did Rachel good.

And so what if they drunkenly made out once, when Santana and Quinn were on a break and Rachel had been dumped by yet another Ken doll wannabe. It wasn’t totally repulsive, she recalls, because singing isn’t the only thing her mouth is good at, apparently.

The both of them are taking that shit to the grave though.)

Quinn tosses the apple sliver back and forth between her hands. “You have one chance. If it ends up on the floor, you’re not getting another one.”

“Don’t tell me you forgot about cheer camp the summer before freshman year? I’m the food catching champion,” Santana counters, taking two steps back and preparing herself. “Game on.”

The slice soars through the air in a perfect arc before landing squarely in Santana’s open mouth. It’s delicious, cinnamon and cardamom and allspice mingle with the tartness of the apple itself, and Santana fist pumps. Quinn just rolls her eyes, but Santana knows—she fucking _knows_ —that Quinn’s equally as proud and impressed.

“God, I fucking love you, you know that? Look at you, little lady of the house. Go on, bake that pie, you sexy bitch.”

“Oh my god, Santana. Don’t talk with your mouth full. Also, that statement was so heteronormative I might as well be dating a man,” Quinn says as she pours the rest of the apples into the pie dish.

Two years ago, that would have irked Santana. Two years ago, she would have shot back a cruel comment that would have inevitably pitched them into one of those infamous mostly-verbal throwdowns. Now, however, Santana feels secure enough in her position of Quinn Fabray’s fucking _girlfriend_ that there really isn’t a need for any of that. She’s grown. Matured. They both have.

This is by far the healthiest relationship she’s ever had. Kinda cool now that she thinks about it.

“Oh, please, like any man has made you feel half as good as I do,” she comments, poking Quinn in the ribs.

“Your cockiness is painfully unattractive, honey,” Quinn tuts. The growing smile on her face says otherwise. “Anyway, how was it?”

Santana licks her lips. “Five stars, Luce. Tastes like fall.”

“Thank you. Now, because you called me both a lady of the house and a bitch, you need to go to the store and pick up some soap. I’ll consider it your apology.”

Ugh. She should’ve known that was gonna bite her in the ass. She really, really doesn’t want to go anywhere; her muscles burn from today’s heavy lifting. In retrospect, she should have taken up Puck’s offer of helping them move.

“You have selective hearing, Quinn. I believe I called you _sexy._ ” But she slips on her sneakers and grabs her keys from the wall hook anyway because there’s really nothing she _won’t_ do for her baking prodigy of a girlfriend. “You need anything else while I’m out?”

Quinn fingers pause halfway through forming a lattice. Santana can practically see the gears turning in Quinn’s head and immediately regrets her question. When did she become so conscientious?

“Now that you mention it, we need laundry detergent, compostable trash bags, oat milk, that lemon cayenne ginger juice for your cleanse,” Quinn lists, ticking off her fingers as she does so. Fuck that cleanse, but Quinn’s weekly reminder of ‘your body’s not going to look like that forever’ has Santana downing those shitty shots anyway. “Oh, and candles and wine for the housewarming party. A dry red for Kurt and Blaine. White for Rach. Rosé for—”

“Britts, I know. But Jesus Christ, woman. Can you write that all down, at least?”

“I’ll text it to you as soon as I get this in the oven. Don’t pout, Santana.” Quinn’s not even looking at her. How does she know that Santana’s pouting? It’s probably like her mom told her when she was a child—eyes in the back of her head, or something. “On the bright side, this’ll probably be done by the time you get back.”

“Fine,” she yields, because being in the apartment while Quinn bakes is something akin to torture. And she’s learned her lesson about impatience and food that comes out of ovens—she’s burned the roof of her mouth twelve too many times.

“I appreciate you!” Quinn calls as the front door shuts.

Three hours later, Santana’s trudging up the last flight of stairs and dropping the armful of bags to the ground while she digs into her pocket for her keys. In addition to Quinn’s initial list, she added like, fifty more things, and the thought of an awaiting pie was the only thing stopping Santana from abandoning the entire trip as Quinn’s fourth ‘ _Oh, and…_ ’ message came in.

Santana pushes the front door open with a free hand, the squeaky sound of its hinges adding yet another task to their long list of upgrades to “make our house a _home_ , Santana,” as the scent of Quinn’s apple pie hits her square in the face. Her stomach grumbles instantly. Quinn strides forward—long, easy steps—ever graceful, and picks up the discarded shopping bags. Santana follows her into the kitchen, bypassing the pie that she has been so eagerly longing for, and begins to stow away the groceries.

When all is said and done, when proper thanks have been given to dutiful girlfriends and baking wizards, when hands are washed and the delectable pie has been sliced and served. When the overcast gives way to black night, and Santana’s legs dangle idly from where she’s perched on their countertop, Quinn speaks.

“Did you ever think, when push came to shove, we’d be in this position?”

“What, me sitting on the kitchen counter and you spoon-feeding me like the Grecian I am?”

Quinn smiles, brightening the darkening apartment with just a quirk of her lips. “No, dummy. All of it. This relationship, this apartment, everything. Back then, did you ever think about you and I together?

Splashes of a clear blue sky and fervent heat spill out from the depths of Santana’s consciousness in waves. With perfect precision, she recalls the summer before junior year. Of hazelnuts and strawberries. Of knobby knees and delicate ankles. Of sticky fingers and cool lips.

“I did, once. The day your SAT scores came in, I thought about it.”

“What the—that was the summer before junior year, Santana. You’re telling me you thought about us in a relationship _seven_ years ago?”

“So what if I did?”

“Was this before or after I kissed you?”

“Literally right before. I can’t believe you remember that kiss though. We never talked about it so I assumed you forgot.”

Santana grins at the recollection and leans forward on the counter until her chin rests gently atop Quinn’s head. Quinn fits perfectly under her in this position. It’s rare that Santana experiences this. She’s smaller than Quinn—not by much, a mere inch—so generally Santana’s the one tucked into the space beneath Quinn’s jaw.

This is nice, she thinks, and a fierce ripple of protectiveness surges from deep within her chest. Her arms automatically come to loop around Quinn’s shoulders to reign her in close.

“Of course I remember it.”

“Obviously, I’m a damn good kisser.”

“Shut up, you’re ruining the moment,” Quinn sighs. Santana feels her breath against the base of her neck and Quinn envelops Santana’s torso in a loose hug.

“You tasted like soft serve.”

“Hmm?” Quinn’s mouth brushes gently against Santana’s skin. She feels the vibration in her own throat.

“That day. You bought us ice cream and your mouth was cold but it felt nice because that was when that massive heat wave took over the Midwest. And you tasted like strawberry soft serve.”

Quinn pulls back slightly to look at her. Her hazel eyes are like one of those mood rings from the 90s. As much as Santana loves the light brown that comes forth when Quinn’s deep in thought, or the gold that signifies her utmost concentration, Santana’s favorite is when they’re a vibrant green, just like they are now.

Vibrant green means Quinn Fabray is bravely, intensely, irrevocably in love.

Seeing this color, seeing this _Quinn_ makes the blood in Santana’s veins seize and stop until it begins to pump again with twice the passion.

Loving came relatively easy for Santana after she openly accepted her sexuality. She wore her heart on her sleeve, shallowly and unapologetically, and had fallen headfirst in love (and subsequently had her little sleeved heart squandered under the heels of gorgeous women) regularly by the time she and Quinn got together. Quinn, however, finds love to be rather elusive, and Santana had to grapple-hook her way up the stone walls of Castle Fabray. So this blatantly visible unspoken declaration revealed to Santana in vibrant, beautiful green is just about the best feeling in the entire world.

God, Santana thinks she should pinch herself or something because right now—in this kitchen, in their new apartment, with a half-eaten old-fashioned lattice apple pie with just one spoon in the pie glass—all of her dreams are piecing themselves together.

Yeah, she has _dreams_ now. Real ones. Adult ones. So fuck Will Schuester and Sue Sylvester in particular for saying she was directionless in life. That was years ago, when she was a dumb teen convinced that Lima was all there was to the world.

And now? Now she wants to make senior partner, travel the globe, buy a house, get married, and have a cute ass multiethnic baby.

Hold up.

That last part’s new. Really new. Like, never-before-seen or thought of once. Kids and Santana don’t mix. Quinn always said it was because she was too brash and always frowned, which, like, fine—that was true. She has resting bitch face, she can’t help it. Quinn’s 1950s housewife act must be doing a number on her.

“You’ve always had impeccable long-term memory. I don’t even remember what my SAT score even was anymore.”

“1570,” Santana replies without missing a beat, albeit dazedly, still caught up in this newfound baby revelation.

“Oh my god, you’re so right,” Quinn laughs. It’s light and airy and full and shakes Quinn’s whole body, which shakes Santana’s as well. “Your retention is astounding. Like an elephant’s.”

“Yeah, and so is my appetite,” Santana says, drawing back fully out of Quinn’s embrace to pat her stomach. This lesbian family plan needs to be be put on the back-burner for the time being, she thinks. Babies and pregnancies are still a touchy subject for Quinn. “I gots to get some more pie in me, babe.”

“Must you ruin every speck of romance in this relationship with an ill-timed comment, Santana?”

“Must you speak like you’re the protagonist of a Victorian period piece, Quinn?” she shoots back lightly as she spoons another huge bite of pie into her mouth. It’s still warm and gooey and absolutely exquisite and it’s the perfect metaphor for how Santana’s heart feels in her chest right now. She mentally punches herself in the face because that’s just about the grossest, sappiest shit she’s ever thought in her entire life.

Quinn wipes Santana’s cheek with the pad of her thumb where the spoon missed her mouth entirely. “Christ, you’re so messy,” she reprimands, both placating and affectionate. “How did you get pie in your _hair_?” she asks, gathering dark locks in her fingers and pulling it up to a high pony before wrapping an elastic around it.

“You love me regardless.”

“That I do,” Quinn says, bending forward to peck Santana on the lips. “That I do.”

Quinn leans back, far enough to be out of Santana's immediate grasp, resting her elbows on the edge of the kitchen sink, eyes twinkling conspiratorially. Santana rises to the unspoken challenge, hopping not-so-graciously off the countertop, and slinks forward, capturing Quinn's sweet mouth in hers once again. Her tongue roams around the familiar warmth, savoring the lingering taste of spices, and mumbles a cheeky, “Think it's time for us to test out the new mattress?”

There's an eye roll after that, Santana's sure of it, but she's already skirting around the couch and into the bedroom and flinging herself onto the freshly-washed comforter. Not a moment later, Quinn joins her, giggling and pinning her against the sheets.


End file.
